Prophet of Moonshae tdt-1

by Douglas Niles

  Now, after she mopped up the last bit of gravy and pudding with the final crust of bread, she removed her lyre from its traveling pouch. The others waited expectantly as she tuned it carefully, finally stroking her fingers across the instrument and calling forth a series of bright ascending chords.

  "It's been too long since we've had the sound of your music within these walls," Robyn said, leaning back in her chair to listen.

  Tavish made no reply, instead strumming a series of powerful notes that faded into a mournful, minor key.

  She began to sing, and her voice held them all in its grip. Tavish played a ballad of a farmer's son, a poor lad who had served his lord in the wars, winning glory and horses and treasure. The tale was a long one, and the listeners thrilled to the farm lad's exploits, shared his grief at the passing of his lord, knew his joy upon winning the love of a maiden's heart and claiming lands awarded him so that he could make himself a freeman's homestead.

  Then, as in the way of such ballads, the man perished, not in the thick of some raging battle, but slain by a boar that rushed him as he began to clear his fields. The final notes, heavy with deep, minor resonance, seemed to swirl about the listeners, first bringing them to the verge of tears and then ultimately washing away their sadness in the totality of a life well lived, and well told.

  "Beautiful," Alicia said quietly, several moments after the bard had finished her tune.

  "Indeed. A moving ballad, and one we have not yet heard in Callidyrr," noted Keane.

  "Well, I should hope not!" Tavish feigned high dudgeon. "I composed it during my winter's rest in Corwell."

  "Oh, yes," Robyn interjected. "Now, tell us-you said you have news!"

  Tavish's face grew serious. "Aye, Lady. Some of it, perhaps, is familiar, for Corwell and Gwynneth suffer the same from flood and storm as have the rest of the Isles these past several years. Fortunately they have not so many mouths to feed, and the harvests from the sea have been good on those days when weather permits the fisherffolk to sail."

  "That's some welcome news," Robyn allowed. "It's good to see more of the Ffolk take to the water that surrounds them. We have always been such a land-bound people."

  "Indeed. But with the keelwork that was laid by the shipwrights of the northmen as a personal favor to His Majesty, the Ffolk of Corwell and Moray have considerably improved the seaworthiness of their craft."

  "And Earl Randolph?" inquired the High Queen. The earl had once been captain of Corwell's castle guard, advancing to the earldom when Tristan came to rule in Callidyrr.

  "He is well, and sends my lady his good wishes. The steading of the Kendricks is in good hands, you may rest assured." Tavish paused, looking past the others, pondering before she continued.

  "Much of the time I spent there, the fog lay thick across the town and the moor. It rolled into Corwell Firth before dawn and stayed till dusk. On many days, you couldn't see Caer Allisynn where it stood, a bare half-mile up the shore."

  They all remembered that towering castle, anchored upon the gravelly bed of the Firth for twenty years.

  "Finally came a day when the fog lifted, opening again to firth and moor. Then it was that we saw, and I left in haste to bring the news to you."

  "What?" Robyn's face had grown pale. "What did you see?"

  "It's what we did not see," the bard replied, softly. "Caer Allisynn. It was gone. It may as well have sailed with the midnight tide."

  Alicia sat back in her chair, stunned. She heard a sound to her side and turned, gasping, as her mother groaned and slumped back in her chair. The others looked at the queen and then sprang to her side as they saw that her face was locked in an expression of deep, supernatural fear.

  The storm pulsed as Talos became aware of a sudden vulnerability. Power flowed between the thunderheads, arcing across with sizzling explosions. Lightning flashed earthward, heavenly javelins of deadly force.

  And while the crushing fists of the storm beat about the walls of the castle with lightning and hail, sinister fingers of mist penetrated the closed shutters, slipped beneath barred doors. Those perilous tendrils trickled along the floor, seeking the place of weakness that the god had sensed.

  When those fingers of fear felt the nearness of the High Queen, they clutched forward, eager to clasp their chill grip around the faintly beating heart.

  They grasped, and then they squeezed.

  Robyn's head tossed on the pillow as Alicia patted her brow with a damp cloth. Suddenly the queen's eyes opened, but they did not see her daughter. Instead, they stared at something Alicia sensed was far, far away.

  Then Robyn fell back, limp again, but this time her eyes remained opened. Alicia saw, with profound relief, that her mother's gaze now seemed to focus.

  "Don't try to talk, Mother," she soothed. "It's been a terrible shock. Just rest."

  "No." Robyn shook her head weakly. "It's a sign! We forsook her, and now, one by one, she takes our lives and our lands from us."

  "She? Who?"

  "The goddess!"

  "Please, Mother-you've got to rest." Frightened again, Alicia wished someone was here with her.

  "Summon Keane and Deirdre."

  "What?" Alicia, startled, felt as though her mother had eavesdropped upon her thoughts. She rose and went to the door, speaking to one of her mother's ladies-in-waiting.

  "They'll be here in a few minutes," she said, returning to sit upon the edge of the bed.

  "Help me sit up." Robyn wiped her hair from her forehead and leaned forward so that Alicia could arrange her pillows. In moments, she looked strong again. Only after careful study did the princess realize that her mother's eyes had sunk deep in their sockets, and her cheeks remained drawn and pale.

  In a short time, Deirdre and Keane arrived, and Robyn bade all three of them to take seats near the bed. She took a breath and began to speak.

  "I was seized by a spell of weakness. It lingers, though the immediate onslaught has passed. Nevertheless, I shall not be able to journey to Blackstone as I had planned."

  Alicia blinked. She had forgotten that her mother had been requested by the king to make that journey.

  "My daughter," the queen continued, addressing Alicia, "you must make the trip in my stead. And after the news that Tavish has brought, you must reconsider your father's decision regarding the Moonwell."

  Keane spoke. "Lord Blackstone should be instructed not to disturb the pool?"

  Robyn smiled wanly. "I cannot make that decision from here. But neither can we dismiss the portent of Caer Allisynn."

  "I don't understand," Alicia balked. "What do you want me to do?"

  "You must see if there is anything-anything at all-that the miners can do to avoid the well. There must be a way to save the sacred pool!"

  "I'll do my best," Alicia pledged, deeply frightened. Suddenly she wished she had paid closer attention to her lessons. She listened to her mother's next words.

  "Sir Keane," the queen continued, "I must beg a favor of you. We know my daughter is wise, but she is also young."

  "Indeed, Lady." Keane suppressed a smile, but the tightening of the tall man's lips annoyed Alicia.

  "Will you journey to Blackstone with her? This, her first task in the name of the crown, is a matter of delicacy and importance. Your help would be very useful, I am certain."

  Now it was the princess who smiled privately. Keane's aversion to travel, indeed to anything of the outdoors, was well known. To his credit, the tutor concealed his dismay. "Of course, Your Highness. It shall be my pleasure."

  "Good. Now." Robyn turned to Deirdre. "The clerics have told me to stay in bed overnight, so I'll need your help with some things for the next few days. The ambassador from Calimshan is coming to dinner tomorrow."

  "Of course, Mother." There was nothing private about Deirdre's pleasure. She had longed for such a chance and felt no reluctance to accept the reins of responsibility.

  Robyn leaned back against the pillows. Her face was drawn, her brow once again spotted w
ith perspiration. She sighed weakly and then spoke. "I will sleep in a moment, but please, one more thing. Will you send for Tavish? I'd like to speak with her in private."

  "She's right outside," said Keane, not surprised that the bard had earlier anticipated the queen's request. They filed quietly from the room and Tavish entered.

  "My Queen," the bard said, grieving, "it is to my wretched shame that the news I bring should cause such a heavy burden."

  Robyn waved her hand, impatient. "It is not just the news-and by the goddess, am I an ignorant war queen who knows no better than to hold her messenger responsible for the news she bears?"

  "I should hope not, Lady."

  "Well, of course not! The news is grievous, of course-all the more so because it confirms that which I have feared."

  Tavish waited expectantly before the queen continued.

  "These curses, the misfortunes that have befallen our lands, are not simply the effects of dire weather. We are being punished! Punished for our faithlessness."

  "Would that I could argue with you, for I should not hesitate to do so," replied the harpist. "But, alas, it is a feeling that I have come to share as well."

  Robyn reached out and took the older woman's stronger hand in both her own. "That is why Alicia's journey is so important. I don't believe we can afford to lose a Moonwell, stagnant and lifeless though it may be!"

  "There, too, I must agree."

  "Then please, Tavish, go with them. Go with Keane and Alicia to Blackstone and see that their counsel is wise. . and prudent."

  "Of course." The bard bowed her head, humble before her queen.

  "There is one thing more." Robyn gestured toward a dark hickory chest near one wall of her bedchamber. "You will find the key in my nightstand. Please open it."

  Tavish did so, inserting the tiny golden tines into the keyhole, turning it to release the catch, and then lifting the heavy lid with both hands.

  "The staff-take it out." Robyn's voice was a command.

  Tavish saw that the chest contained several felt pouches of rich cloth as well as a pair of scrolls, a metal torque that she recognized as having graced the queen's neck at her wedding, and a long stave of smooth, white ash.

  The bard lifted the staff out and closed the lid. Turning, she offered it to Robyn.

  "No." The queen shook her head. "It is the Staff of the White Well, the tool of a druid, not a cleric-nor a queen. Take it with you on your journey. It may be that you will come upon one who shall use it."

  "Very well, Lady," Tavish replied, bowing deeply. "I am honored by the trust."

  Robyn leaned back again, her face grown shockingly pale. "You do me honor if you help my daughter succeed."

  He presented himself as a cleric, and how else were the men to take him? His powers were real enough: They had all seen him materialize in their midst, along the storm-wracked shore of Whitefish Bay. When he spoke, his voice was full of power and promise, sweeping the hundred or so ruffians in his audience to a pitch of enthusiasm and loyalty. They had gathered from the slums, from the waterfronts and garrison quarters, of the worst dives along the Sword Coast.

  There were also the matters of his robe and his identity. The one who had summoned these men-bandits, mercenaries, and outlaws, from Gnarhelm and Callidyrr and places beyond-was robed from head to foot, revealing only his hands. The latter were pale and spotted, almost skeletally frail, but supple and quick of movement.

  And not one of the men summoned here knew the name or the identity of the robed man. Yet he spoke of the gods like one who knew their ways, and his gold was real. Finally, his promise of gold answered the important questions.

  Lost in the mist and rain, the white towers of Callidyrr thrust skyward no more than five miles away, but they might have been across the world for all they could be seen. The band of scoundrels gathered here secretly, coming from the cities and forests and highlands-wherever the robed man had found them.

  He divided his recruits into two companies. Those of the north he outfitted with helms and weapons of the type used by northmen.

  "You, Kaffa, will be my captain," said the robed man, addressing a huge, one-eyed northman. "You will take seventy men to the longship I have provided. It is anchored in a cove along the north shore of Whitefish Bay. I have the location sketched on maps, which I will provide you when our business here is concluded. Also, I have affixed a talisman to the ship-a thing that will protect you against sorcery."

  "You don't lead us there?" inquired Kaffa, with a spit.

  "I have other, equally important matters to attend to. But listen to me carefully, for here are your orders:

  "Sail swiftly down the coast of Callidyrr," the mysterious priest ordered the crew in that dry voice that discouraged questions or debate. "Strike all the major cantrevs-Blythe, Dorset, Kythyss. Land quickly and burn what you can, wherever you can. Take treasure and captives only as it does not jeopardize your mission. Then, when you reach Southpoint, pass to the western shore and continue your raiding along the western shore of Alaron."

  "Aye, Master," replied the one called Kaffa.

  "And you, Larth," the priest continued, now speaking to a strapping outlaw known to be skilled with sword and shield. "You will lead the other thirty men. I have collected horses and armor in a barn beside that same cove. You will don them and ride, as knights of Callidyrr, against the lands of the northmen. Kill and burn as you ride. Take what treasure you will, but I want no prisoners!"

  "As you wish, great one," replied Larth, grinning easily as he contemplated mayhem.

  "Both of you, my captains, must remain alert for a message from me. When that comes, I want you to join me as quickly as possible. I will need you without delay!"

  Standing on the gray shore of Whitefish Bay, the men nodded and then turned to their tasks. They would move north in small bands, agreeing to gather at the appointed cove in four days' time.

  Watching them go, the robed figure allowed himself a shadow of a smile beneath his masking robe. The mist parted as a sudden gust drove the rain momentarily inland. The man glimpsed the towers of the great white castle.

  He thought of one who dwelled there, who dreamed of the robed man, though she did not know it yet. Still, her dreams were a summons, an appeal to him, and soon she would know his presence. To her, he would become more than the impersonal figure who had just sent these raiding parties on their missions. Indeed, she would need to call him something- though, of course, he could not let her know his real name. The faint smile played with his lips as he thought of the young princess and her naive welcome.

  "She will call me Malawar," he whispered to himself with a soft chuckle.

  From the Log of Sinioth:

  The pieces of war are gathered. Talos awaits the rise of chaos, when the armies shall march and his power shall rule over all the land!

  Of course, I do not control these armies, but through the wisdom of my master, I do not have to. The mere triggers of war, prodded by the agents of Talos, will be enough to sweep away the fragile framework of twenty years' peace.

  And in its place, once again the isles will tremble before the thunder of war, raging conflicts of men and of gods!

  5

  Road to Blackstone

  Gotha finally touched claw to land upon an islet that stood in lonely isolation, rising a little higher than the gray seas about its bleak shore. The barren rockpile was crested by a low hill, and near the rounded summit, Gotha discovered a cave. The natural cavern did not approach the grandeur of the magnificent lair he had once claimed, but it was a dwelling that would serve him well for the task at hand.

  Next he went about exploring the islet, knowing that it was not huge but having earlier seen evidence of human habitation. The beast prowled the rock in the dark of the night, stalking the land like a huge hunting cat. Wind howled, and sheets of rain drenched him, but Gotha pressed on, unmindful of the weather.

  The dracolich came upon a small pasture of sheep and gleefully slayed the stu
pid creatures. When their bleating brought a shepherd forth, the hideous monster disemboweled the wretch with one quick slash of his foreclaw, deriving even more pleasure from this killing.

  Creeping across the fogbound isle, the dragon-beast found more huts-dwelling places for lone shepherds and fishermen mostly, though in one place, he encountered a dozen or more buildings clustered together, forming the beginnings of a town.

  Gotha's eyes-red orbs that seemed to float in his deep, black sockets-glowed fiercely at the discovery. Slinking silently along the ground, sheltered by the heavy mist and the thickness of the night, the beast coiled in the center of the rude buildings. The structures employed, for their walls and roofs, the wreckage of ships that had been cast upon this lonesome rock, giving each a temporary, haphazard appearance.

  From several, Gotha smelled odors that would have once been pleasant: a kettle of boiling fish, a leg of mutton sizzling over a driftwood fire, even the sweet scent of tobacco wafting through the dusk. Now these spoors triggered nothing beyond memory, for the undead dragon no longer felt hunger.

  He still, however, lusted for the savage joy of killing

  Gotha raised his gaunt head to the sky like a spearhead thrust upward into the night and uttered a bellow of fierce challenge. The force of the sound rang through the night and brought the northmen stumbling from their huts, peering in terror through the mists, trying to see the nature of that which had inspired such deep and primeval dread.

  And even as they learned, they died.

  Carefully, methodically, Gotha set about making the island his own. The huts and houses of the inhabitants he left intact, save in a few cases in which a desperate human-as often as not, a male with female and young to protect-barricaded himself in his dwelling.

  These Gotha dealt with directly, spreading his jaws and belching the murderous gout of flame. His metamorphosis from dragon to lich had not impaired this ability, he swiftly realized. Indeed, it seemed that, if anything, the power of his deadly attack was increased, for the monster blasted six or eight structures in this manner. Previously half this number of explosive fireballs would have exhausted his belly until he had fed well and rested.